Having just completed this article, which references him, I learned of the petira (passing) of my mentor, my friend, and my rebbe, Rabbi Pinchas Stolper, zt”l. By the time you read this, shiva will have been completed. I therefore decided to add this short introduction to honor my Rebbe’s memory.
Rabbi Stolper was responsible for
changing the landscape of Torah outreach in North America beginning in the
early 60s. NCSY and Rabbi Stolper were synonymous. NCSY was without a doubt on
the cutting edge of kiruv (Jewish
outreach) when it began its work over 60 years ago. NCSY succeed in reaching
out to the huge numbers of young Jews who were rapidly being lost to
assimilation. The word Shabbaton, which is now in common usage, was coined by
Rabbi Stolper to describe the weekend teenage gatherings that gave many high
schoolers their first taste of a real Shabbos, which included learning, zemiros, and dancing. Following a
musical havdalah, there was a fun-filled
melava malka with great food and entertainment.
By the early 1970s, hundreds of
Shabbatonim, attracting thousands of teens, were being run from coast to coast,
in big cities and small towns, across North America. While many of our
staff members and group leaders came from YU and Stern, some came from other yeshivas
and seminaries, including Ner Yisrael. I recall, in 1971, dancing at a melava malka with Reb Pinchas in the packed social hall of Beth Jacob
Congregation in Columbus Ohio. He was bursting with nachas watching over 500 teens from Indiana, Michigan, Ohio, West
Virginia, Kentucky, and western Pennsylvania singing “Am Yisroel Chai” (the Nation of Israel Lives).
Many of NCSY’s early graduates went
on to study in yeshivas and seminaries, and eventually built solid Jewish
homes. Their children and grandchildren are now populating yeshivas and kollels
around the world. Today, NCSY meets the challenges of the current generation of
Jewish teens who are also in search of meaning and purpose. May Hashem grant
the holy neshama of His devoted
servant Reb Pinchas a speedy aliyah.
May Rabbi Stolper’s beloved Rebbitzen Elaine, and their children,
grandchildren, and great-grandchildren find comfort among the mourners for Zion
and Yerushalayim. My wife and I, and many thousands of others, mourn the loss
of an incredible man who deeply and personally impacted and refocused our
lives.
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*
?In a previous article I mentioned that my father-in-law, Sam
Axelrod, a”h, once remarked that his yichus (lineage) came from his children
and grandchildren. It was a profound statement. Sam was pointing out that, so
often, people look back at their ancestors with understandable pride, and some
even boast about their lineage, but their critical concern should be who their
children and grandchildren will become.
The post-World War II generation to
which I belong (I call it Gen N for NORMAL) was not fixated on yichus. If you had glorious ancestors,
great; if not, you could still be a full-fledged productive member of klal Yisrael
(the Jewish People). After I became a baal
teshuva (a returnee to Jewish tradition), there were a few occasions when
my self-esteem was challenged in the presence of those who professed to have a
direct line back to Torah giants of previous generations.
In 1970, Rabbi Stolper, founding
director of NCSY, recruited me to become the first director of NCSY’s Central
East Region. The region’s borders stretched east to west, from western
Pennsylvania to Indiana, and north to south from southern Ontario to northern
Kentucky. Rabbi Stolper and I agreed that the regional office needed to be in
Cleveland.
Just prior to my relocating, Rabbi
Stolper mentioned that as soon as I arrived in Cleveland I needed to set up a
meeting with the rosh hayeshiva, Hagaon Harav Mordechai Gifter, zt”l. Rabbi Stolper asked me to deliver
a personal letter from him to the rosh hayeshiva and also asked me to try to get
a few of the Telshe Kollel talmidim
to lend support to NCSY’s kiruv
efforts in the Central East region.
At the time, I didn’t realize that,
besides Rabbi Stolper’s greetings, and introduction of me to Rav Gifter, the
envelope also contained a haskama (approbation)
from the Gaon Harav Yitzchok Hutner, zt”l,
the rosh hayeshiva of Chaim Berlin. Rav Hutner wrote about the work that NCSY
was doing to “save neshamos (souls),”
and that his talmid muvchak (outstanding student), Rabbi
Stolper, was being “moser nefesh (self-sacrificing)”
in his holy (and successful) efforts of saving Jewish teenagers from
assimilation.
Upon arrival in Cleveland, I
immediately made an appointment to meet with Rav Gifter. At this point I need
to interject that every rosh hayeshiva I had ever met spoke Yiddish (and very
limited English) and came from the great yeshivas of prewar Europe. Some, like
my high school rebbes, had arrived in America from Europe after the war via
Shanghai. Because my Yiddish was sub-par, I was somewhat apprehensive about
having a one-on-one meeting with the Telshe Rosh Hayeshiva. Nevertheless, on a
mild summer morning in August of 1970, I drove out to Wickliffe, Ohio, to meet
Rav Gifter.
After waiting outside the Rosh Hayeshiva’s
study for a few minutes, I heard a small commotion coming from the hallway, and
someone said “Rav Gifter just walked in.” I stood up, and a very serious,
almost stern looking man dressed in the garb of a rosh hayeshiva whisked by me
and entered his office. A minute later, an older bachur asked if I had an appointment. I said I did and gave my
name. All the while, the tension inside of me was building. The bachur said, “Please knock on Rav
Gifter’s door and wait for a reply.” I did as I was instructed. The strong
voice from inside said, “Come in.” I entered. I was surprised, since I expected
to hear in Yiddish, “Vas ist (what is
it)?”
The Rosh Hayeshiva (not yet looking
up) quietly said “Hmm…Lerner.” Then, looking directly at me, he said “Lerner
from where?”
I was still trying to make sense of
a rosh hayeshiva who spoke perfect English. I replied, “Originally from
Baltimore.”
Again, the Rosh HaYeshiva mused “Hmm.”
Then he said. “Are you related to Yossel Lerner?”
My grandma always called my father
Yossel, but most of the world knew him as Joe. I replied, “My dad’s Yiddish
name is Yossel.”
Rav Gifter said, “Did your father
grow up near Hollins Market?” I said yes. “Did your father attend Southwest
Talmud Torah?”
I said, “Until his bar mitzvah.”
“Did your father go to City
College?”
“Yes.”
“What year was your dad born?”
“1914.”
Then the Rosh HaYeshiva of Telshe
pushed his big black desk phone towards me and said, “Call your father.”
I can still recall the cold sweat,
the confusion, the surreal atmosphere. I loved my dad, but he and I were now
occupying very different worlds. When I became frum, he respected my decision while not fully comprehending it. My
dad was a proud Jew, and a wonderful man, but his association with shul was
less than intimate. His attendance pretty much involved Rosh Hashanah and Yom
Kippur and an occasional bar mitzvah or wedding. Not only that, but following
his combat infantry service during World War II (assigned to some of the
toughest battle groups in Europe), my dad had gained an appreciation for army
vernacular, which, being colorful and descriptive, would often illicit a remark
from my mom, like “Joe, Ivan’s listening” or “Joe, we’re in mixed company.”
I started sweating. I was a quite
nervous about connecting my dad and the Rosh HaYeshiva. I said, “My dad’s in
Baltimore, and that’s an expensive call from here, I’d hate for the Yeshiva to
have to spend all that money.” (Note: in the “old days” any calls out of your
area code incurred toll charges, so I thought I had a reasonable excuse.)
Rav Gifter, pushing the phone closer,
said, “My phone, my bill – call your dad.” Rav Gifter was quite a decisive individual,
to say the least.
I said, “My dad’s at work. I hope
I’ll reach him.”
The Rosh HaYeshiva was waiting for
me to dial the number. (Note: Phones of that era had rotary dials into which
you inserted your index finger.) I had a feeling of foreboding as I slowly
dialed. The phone number connected, and a voice answered “Levinson and Klein”
(the furniture store where Dad worked). I said, “Is Joe Lerner there?”
The lady said, “Sure, one moment.”
My head was spinning. My dad
answered, and I said, “Hi Dad, I’m calling from Cleveland…” Before I could
continue, my dad cut me off.
“Cleveland!! Do you know how
expensive this call is?”
I continued, “I’m calling from Rabbi
Mordechai Gifter’s phone. Rabbi Gifter is the rosh hayeshiva of the Telshe
Yeshiva in Cleveland.
My dad – get ready! – said, “Are you with Muttie Gifter? I haven’t seen him
in years!”
At that moment, Rav Gifter reached
out for me to hand him the phone. Immediately, the language of the call turned
into Yiddish. That was good because not only was Yiddish their first language,
but I also knew that common “army vernacular” wasn’t generally part of Yiddish
vocabulary.
For 10 minutes, two boyhood friends
were laughing and joking and reminiscing in Yiddish. I thought I was in the
Twilight Zone. It was surreal. Rav Gifter handed me back the phone and said, “Say
goodbye to your dad.”
In the moments that followed, Rav
Gifter flipped his hat on the chair next to him, leaned back in a relaxed
manner and said, “So why do you think you came to see me this morning?”
I loved the way the question was
phrased. I explained why (I thought) I came and what I thought I was doing for
NCSY. In a very nice way, Rav Gifter explained that while he respected the
great work that NCSY was undertaking, it wasn’t appropriate for him to send
Telshe bachurim to work directly with
us. I then handed the Rosh Hayeshiva Rabbi Stolper’s envelope. He opened it,
read it, and paused and reread Rav Hutner’s approbation. Stroking his beard and
thinking hard, Rav Gifter said, “Maybe there are one or two talmidim I can send. Such was the
respect of the gaonim of that
generation for each other’s opinions.
Then Rav Gifter smiled and said, “Your
dad’s parents had a little grocery store a block away from my parents’ store.
It was a tough, mixed Italian and Polish neighborhood, and your father was one
tough Jew. When the neighborhood thugs (Rav Gifter used a slightly less
complimentary Yiddish term) would threaten us – and sometimes attack us – your
dad came to the rescue. Even before our bar mitzvahs, when we would be walking
home from cheder and the neighborhood
bullies would confront us, your dad would start throwing punches and would send
them running. My mother used to tell me to walk to and from school with your
father.”
Wow, I knew that my dad was pretty
fearless; his combat medals attested to that, but hearing it from the Rosh Hayeshiva’s
personal viewpoint was just amazing.
Listening to Rav Gifter, I was
mesmerized. I said, “So the Rosh Hayeshiva and my dad went to cheder together?”
Rav Gifter said. “We were in the
same class for five years.”
I thought, this is fantastic. What I
had expected to be a short formal meeting turned out to be a relaxed and
enjoyable chat that lasted well over an hour. And from that day forward, Rav
Gifter and I had a very warm and cordial relationship. My wife Arleeta and I
have a beautiful letter from the Rav (which we framed) sent to us when our
twins Ezra and Michoel were born, wishing us and our sons beautiful brachos. The brachos were fulfilled as, b”H,
both Rabbi Ezra and Rabbi Michoel are now chashuve
rabbanim in Eretz Yisrael. May Hashem bless and keep them and their
families.
On my drive home from Telshe that
morning, I couldn’t help but smile and replay our meeting in my head. When I
spoke to Rabbi Stolper later that week, he asked how my meeting went with Rav
Gifter. I said, “Great, as soon as I realized that Rav Gifter and my dad were
in the same shiur (class) for five
years, all went really well.”
Rabbi Stolper, who had once met my
dad, said “WHAT??!!” I then went on to explain, and Rabbi Stolper could barely
speak because he was laughing so hard.
For me the major takeaway was my
self-esteem boost. From then on, whenever I was in the presence of someone who
was boasting about his yichus, I
would casually say, “That’s interesting; by the way, my father and Rav Gifter
were talmidim together in the same shiur for five years.” That usually
leveled the playing field. Sometimes, someone would ask, “When was that?”
My reply, “In the early days.”
